


Best Laid Plans

by Lilia



Series: You Can Run [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Jackson Whittemore, Alpha Scott McCall, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, Recreational Drug Use, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, devirginizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-10 04:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12291423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilia/pseuds/Lilia
Summary: As soon as Stiles presented as omega, things started going down hill fast--like Olympic-snow-boarding-medalist level fast. As his life increasingly took on the attributes of a dumpster fire, there was one person who was able to make him feel better. Like, much better. Seriously, REALLY good.Too bad he's a douchebag who hates Stiles' guts.Prequel to You Can Run: basically the torrid tale of Stiles' doomed love affair with Jackson Whittemore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the months leading up to the events described in chapter 2 of You Can Run.
> 
> As is my habit, this is finished. I haven't figured out the posting schedule, but it will be regular.
> 
> Comments are deeply, dare I say hugely, appreciated.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/)

“For what it’s worth, Bilinski, I don’t agree with the policy.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Stiles muttered. It was worth approximately one micron.

“I mean, you’d be riding the bench anyway.” Or maybe not one micron—a third of a micron. “So it’s not like you’d be at risk from any strange Alphas.”

Stiles could feel his face heating up. He couldn’t speak, just handed the last of his equipment back to the coach and got the hell out of there.

His eyes were burning, which was threatening to turn injury into full-blown catastrophe if anyone reported him.

Clubs were still going, there would be kids littering the halls. He needed somewhere to hide.

Bathroom opposite the old retired chem lab. It was in the basement—nice and solitary and creepy. Exactly where you’d expect to find that murdered custodian come back to life to get revenge on the unsuspecting high school students who used to mock him.

The perfect place for him to cry his sad little omega tears.

He flicked the light on and crept into the last stall. The water in the bowl was rusty brown—yuck. But it meant Stiles’ guess was right: it had been ages since someone had used the bathroom. Even maintenance had forgotten about it. He flicked the lid down and sat, knees curled against his chest.

And cried.

Sobbed.

Gasping noises that reminded him of a wonky old radiator echoed loudly in the empty tiled space. Fuck, he needed to be quiet. If he got sent to _safe-space_ today, he’d probably lose it bad enough to end up back in the hospital, which would mean more drugs, more “sessions,” i.e. therapist-vetted brainwashing.

Safe-fucking-space—just the words made him want to puke. He couldn’t let himself think about that! It just make him more angry, which pushed on his control.

But as he’d found about a million times since the day he’d presented, telling himself not to get upset didn’t do shit.

He let out a real cry—loud enough that anyone in the corridor would know there was a student in here sobbing. He mashed his face against his bunched up sweatshirt, praying that would muffle the sound, because he couldn’t keep it quiet. He couldn’t keep it inside.

They had to take lacrosse from him.

At least Coach had been honest. He always thought Finstock was such a joke, but actually he was the first teacher here to admit what was obvious: that it wasn’t about protecting omegas from “overstimulation.” They were worried that the school might be liable if an Alpha bit him on the field.  

So because an Alpha might be a threat, might not be able to control themselves, might _break the fucking law_ , the omega got screwed over—and was expected to just smile and say it was all okay.

And there was his downfall. Because he would not fucking smile. Because the bullshit made him so _angry_. Better to just say they were screwing him because Alphas were more powerful, more valuable. But no, they had to couch it as somehow for _his good_ , because his omega “emotional lability” made a sport like lacrosse too intense for him to handle “safely.”

Fuck them! Fuck them sideways with a broken bottle!

It was all slipping through his fingers—everything he’d dreamt about his life, his goals. Fuck going to Quantico—he’d never be an FBI field agent now. Best he could hope for was an “omega liaison”—which seriously, shoot him now. He’d been kicked out of chemistry after that incident with Mr. Harris. Now he was in “Everyday Science!” otherwise known as _cooking_ , which put him officially off his school’s college track.

_Scott_ was still in chemistry. Scott, who had a C average. Because _of course_ Alphas went to college.

And Scott was still on lacrosse.

No, he wouldn’t—he couldn’t. This wasn’t Scott’s fault. Scott would have given up his spot if he could. Scott was the only person except for his dad who actually gave a shit about how unfair this all was. He couldn’t lose his only friend.

Fucking emotional lability. He was crying so hard, he was doing that shuddery-choking thing like a little kid. It made his chest ache like a bitch—in other words if he kept crying this hard he was gonna puke, and wouldn’t that just be the perfect cap to _this fucking day!_

That was when he heard the creak of the door opening. Stiles decided this was the gods letting him know that ‘yes, little omega, your day can ALWAYS get worse.’

He was gasping, too far gone to even keep quiet. Too late he realized that he’d not thought to lock the stall. The door opened slowly, revealing almost the last person on the planet he wanted to see—(except for Adrian fucking Harris).

Jackson.

Whose eyes were glowing red.

So Jackson was an Alpha.

Really, universe? _Really_? This is your idea of Karma?

Jackson—who had taken every opportunity for the last five years to make sure everyone knew what losers he and Scott were.

Who’d gotten about 10,000 times worse since Scott’s Alpha powers had manifested.

Only—instead of punching something or insulting him, Jackson—

He picked Stiles up.

And carried him out of the stall and over to the floor.

Where he sat down and just held him.

And OMG that scent! Stiles mashed his face against Jackson’s neck. It just felt so…right. Comforting, calming, safe.

Jackson—who was none of those things. Who’d been indirectly responsible for sending Stiles to the hospital for the first time after they got in an argument over why the Mets were totally the more historic team than the fucking _Giants—_ like seriously!--and the school’s omega advisor decided Stiles needed some quiet time in the binder thus precipitating the worst panic attack of his entire life.

And now this douchebag’s scent was, like, doing things to him. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, opening his mouth so he could just—taste it, that Alpha scent.

Oh Fuck. He’d never felt anything like this for Scott. Why hadn’t he? Scott was an Alpha too. Why Jackson of all people?

Which was when Stiles realized two things: he was rock hard, and he felt two sharp points--distinctly like fangs--on his neck.

Exactly where an Alpha would place a mating bite.

Holy shit! He shoved off, horrified. “Dude, what the fuck?” he croaked.

And then Jackson looked like he was waking up from, like, cryostasis or demonic possession or something. When he took in that he’d been doing _something?_ with that nubile piece-of-omega-ass, Stiles Stilinski, he looked actively nauseated, which gee, thanks. Insulting much?

It was Jackson’s turn to shove him away, and then the Alpha was on his feet and out the door before the two of them could even agree that this shit-show _never happened_.

Stiles was left abandoned on the bathroom floor feeling so many things he’d have to make a list: dumfounded that he’d just had his first sexual _anything_ as an omega with Jackson; who was apparently an Alpha; who’d experienced a freak Alpha instinct towards _Stiles,_ possibly his least favorite classmate. After a few moments, Stiles was able to add to his imaginary list profound relief that no one would ever find out; also, that his emotional meltdown had somehow been derailed thanks to Jackson’s Alpha mojo.

And then annoyance set in because while the meltdown was thankfully over, he was now majorly horny. Which seriously, Stiles! Was he really getting a hard-on for the biggest douchebag in his class?

All right, so maybe he’d jerked off a few times thinking about Jackson. The guy was good looking. Apparently Stiles had a thing for obnoxious douchebags—sue him!

_Fucking A_.

Stiles snapped open his pants and palmed his dick. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d jerked off at school—and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last either.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles had assumed that the weird scene in the john was a one-off, due to Jackson suffering from a fugue state or something brought on by the abrupt onset of his Alphahood.

It wasn’t.

In fact, Stiles lost it three more times that spring, and each time Jackson was the one to find him, holding him in his arms and letting Stiles breathe in his scent until he was calm. It was the only time Stiles kind of understood what it meant to be an omega, where there wasn’t this huge distortion between the world he saw and how the world saw him.

Outside those stolen moments, Jackson never spoke to him, pretended like he didn’t exist, though the taunts and bullying did stop.

Stiles never told anyone, not even Scott.

For the most part Stiles was able to get through his day without much trouble from Alphas. Those junior and senior Alphas who hadn’t claimed one of the school omegas all assumed he was Scott’s, which was gross but convenient. In a way, Scott had claimed him since he’d do anything to protect Stiles and made sure to leave his scent all over him. Challenges were against the rules, as well as the law, though they happened, but given that Stiles already had a well-earned reputation as a mouthy trouble-maker, it wasn’t like Alphas were lining up to challenge Scott for him.

But if sophomore year had sucked shit, junior year was a dumpster fire. Stiles had a long list of people he blamed for shedding the sparks that lit the inferno that laid waste to his life. With hindsight, he realized that blaming others, especially Scott, had been the real spark, but at the time he totally blamed Scott for all of it—like a thousand percent. (At least along with Adrian Harris, his principal, the school’s omega therapist, Jackson, society, the president, the supreme court, and all of congress.)

But mostly Scott! The problem was that as things started to really deteriorate, Scott had gone all Alpha on him and tried to douse the fire or stem the blood-loss or some other mixed metaphor. Even worse, because Scott was so moral and responsible, he’d, like, turned into Jiminy Cricket or something, a little voice in Stiles’ head that was supposed to be his fucking conscience, and would not shut up any time Stiles acted like an asshole. Not that Scott knew he was Jiminy Cricket, of course, but Stiles still blamed him.

Scott was his bro; he was not his dad or his fucking Alpha, which meant it was not his job to save Stiles, no matter how much he fucked up. Which is exactly what Scott tried to do. Stiles got caught vandalizing the car belonging to his school’s omega therapist, Miss Blake, and since it was not the first (or even the third) time it had happened, the bitch decided to press charges. So Scott, in his infinite wisdom, had taken it upon himself to talk to the judge about how Stiles was his “future mate,” who was going through a rough patch, and that Scott would make sure from now on that Stiles stayed out of trouble.

Which seriously—what the fuck! Stiles basically hit Defcon 1 and almost decided to vandalize the judge’s car right after the hearing. The only thing that stopped him was that it would have screwed over his dad, who at this rate was probably going to die early of a heart attack thanks to Stiles’ continual fuck-ups.

So Stiles had come up with a suitably bodacious plan to show Scott just how little he needed his goddamned Alpha input.

He’d scored some E from Matt Daehler and gone to the Jungle.

And for the first, say, twenty-five minutes, it had seriously felt like the most unbelievably awesome idea which was well on its way to producing the most bodaciously epic night of his entire life! Like Stiles was flying so high he could probably do repairs on the Hubble Space Telescope.

But somewhere between minute 26 and minute 66, the awesome factor took a severe nosedive, as he became aware that he was sitting on the lap of a forty-something dude sporting a pornstache and multiple Alpha-rule tats, while the guy’s friends took bets on how many of them Stiles could blow in the alley behind the club.  

Like talk about a bad case of Molly-goggles. Stiles had massively underestimated the sheer fucking creepiness of the type of Alpha who’d be interested in an obviously underage, severely fucked-up omega. This was seriously not epic—and also not happening. Like Stiles was contemplating risking his dad having that heart attack by calling him—that’s how much this wasn’t happening.

Tragically, his severe lack of sobriety was making it very hard to talk his way out of his not-awesome plight. But he’d just taken a breath to inform pornstache that he needed to take a piss, when he found himself pulled off the guy’s lap.

By Jackson.

Jackson, who was Alpha’d out. And furious. At Stiles.

Which really and truly should not be sexy. Which wasn’t sexy. At all. Any and all sexiness was the fucking Molly-goggles.

Pornstache of course was getting ready to fight over Stiles (which was a tiny bit awesome) when Jackson shouted loud enough for about fifty bystanders to hear, “You really want to fuck the underage omega son of the Beacon Hills County Sheriff?”

So not-awesome.

Like way to cock-block him for the rest of his underaged-omega life.

“Yeah, well that was the point,” Jackson growled, cuz apparently Stiles was talking out loud.

“Yes, you are talking out loud,” Jackson snapped as he dragged Stiles out the door of the club. “What did you take?”

“I’m not saying,” Stiles giggled.

 _“What did you take?”_ Jackson growled in the Alpha tone.

“E,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Who sold it to you?”

Stiles ordered himself not to answer. He didn’t want Jackson to kill Matt Daehler.

“Daehler. I should have fucking known.”

Fuck—this talking out loud problem wasn’t funny. If Jackson scared off Matt, Stiles wouldn’t be able to score weed.

“Scoring weed is the least of your problems.”

“That’s just, like, your opinion, man.”

Whoa—did he just quote _Big Lebowski_? Snap! Also, he’d said that out loud, on purpose, so maybe his head was clearing.

He realized Jackson was dragging him towards his Porsche. He was about to protest that he’d drive himself home when he remembered that he’d taken the bus here. He assumed Jackson would just shove him in the car, but instead he leaned Stiles against the hood. His eyes were glowing red and his fangs were showing.  

“Here’s your choice, Stilinski. Either I call your dad right now and tell him everything that just happened or you drop your pants and lean against my car so I can spank your omega ass.”

Of course his slutty cock shot hard, well _harder_ , like it always did when Jackson got all toppy. Stiles might have thought once or twice about Jackson spanking him—like after watching porn or something. But still, here in the parking lot of the Jungle because he was hitting on some creep? So not happening. And threatening to call his dad was just uncool. “Dude, what the fuck—you have no right to punish me. You’re not my Alpha.”

“I am tonight. You already got arrested today. McCall obviously can’t keep you in line. _Now_ _choose, omega_.”

Jesus fuck, Jackson just used the Alpha tone on him again. Stiles could feel his head going back as he bared his neck in his need to, to—he wasn’t using that word. Stiles fought against the command even as he gasped out, “Please don’t call my dad.”

_“Then drop your pants, omega, and turn and face the car.”_

Holy fuck. Stiles fumbled with his belt buckle--and who the fuck invented skinny jeans for men, and what was Stiles thinking wearing them tonight?—as he scrambled to obey.

“Dude, you don’t have to do this,” he squawked as he stumbled trying to force his jeans down over his thighs, which pulled at the skin uncomfortably and made him appear somewhat less than bodaciously sexy.

Jackson caught his arm before he tipped over and pivoted him around to face the car, where he proceeded to pull down Stiles’ special sexy briefs that he’d worn specially just to be sexy.

Next Stiles felt a stinging slap against his ass. “Fuck!” he yelled.

Another one, harder. It hurt like a rabid bitch.

“Fuck, I get it; you can stop any time now.”

“Fifteen,” Jackson growled. “And consider yourself lucky I’m not making you count, or I’d be doing this all night.” Another smack.

For some reason Stiles’ brain latched onto the “fifteen.” That was considered the standard “safe” punishment for an out-of-control omega—courtesy of the same fucking manuals that recommended binders and “therapeutic restraints.”

Of course the Protection Acts only permitted this type of “domestic discipline” from mates and guardians—Jackson was neither. He was just a douchebag whose Alpha instincts somehow got triggered by his loser omega classmate.

Another smack. Was that ten? That had to be ten, right?

“Four,” Jackson huffed. Not even half way!

Fuck, it burned! Jackson’s meaty hand felt like it was on fire—or covered with habanero chile oil or something.

Despite the talking out loud problem, Stiles was pretty sure the pain was clearing his head a little. Unfortunately, the clarity brought with it the realization that as the Alpha heated up his ass, something else, which occupied the same general area, was heating up as well. Something which, if he were still quoting Jeff Lebowski, he’d refer to as his Johnson.

Talk about triggered instincts. He’d kind of suspected something like this might be true. So okay, maybe he had indulged in slightly more than a few late night fantasies about Jackson wailing on his ass—and not just when he was watching the omegakink channel. Like Jackson spanking him with a belt, a hairbrush, even a paddle.

 _Aaaaaaand_ he’d even had a few about Scott putting him over his knee, which was just fucking perverted, like almost incestuous, though he didn’t fantasize about anything sexual with Scott otherwise.

He forced down the sheer humiliation of it—it was a kink! And he’d bet plenty of Alphas got their rocks off spanking omegas. And he wasn’t some submi… some sadsack omega looking for an Alpha to boss him. He was a sleazy, slutty omega horndog, who got off on _all sorts_ _of_ perverted stuff. Like being spanked by a hot Alpha in a public parking lot. Totally.

He felt something ineffable relax—not like he was surrendering, but, sorta, _riding_ it. He refused to use the word submit, though Jackson clearly read it that way. “Good boy,” he grunted as he delivered another smack.

The praise made Stiles shudder. God, his dick really was a needy little slut, getting off on Alpha praise—from Jackson of all people. Fuck it. His hand slipped down so he could grip his cock, but Jackson caught him. “No fucking way—you do not get to cum,” he growled, and twisted his arm so he could hold Stiles in place and keep whacking him.

Motherfuck! The show of dominance threw him over the edge.

Stiles groaned and shot his load.

“You little shit,” Jackson snarled. “You did not just cum on my car! Five more.”

Oh fuck. Stiles could somehow sense Jackson’s arm go all the way back so he could deliver the blow full force. The dude was ripped, and when the smack came it was twice as hard as the previous ones.

“Ow! Fuck, that hurts!” he yelled ridiculously.

“Good,” Jackson snapped, delivering another even harder.

Now that he’d cum, this started to feel like a real punishment. Stiles wasn’t going to be able to sit tomorrow.

Finally, Jackson grumbled, “Twenty. Done.”

He pulled back, leaving Stiles collapsed against his car, feeling more sober by the second. With it came that strangling feeling in his chest that had driven him out to the Jungle in the first place. Because while Stiles was all up for exploring his slutty side, that didn’t change that this was still Jackson Whittemore. Not his Alpha or his boyfriend; not even his _friend_.

Other than being an Alpha and good-looking, Jackson sure as shit wasn’t Stiles’ type. On those rare occasions where Jackson had made him feel safe and cared for in a way nobody ever had before, Stiles couldn’t help wondering if there could be more--like could he fall for Jackson?

But some brutally honest part of himself warned him that even if Jackson cared about whether he was hurting, Stiles Stilinski wasn’t and could never be what Jackson Whittemore was looking for. Stiles would never measure up, never be glamorous and popular and sweet, and he had enough self-esteem problems without adding a boyfriend who didn’t think he was good enough to be seen in public without some Hollywood makeover montage.

He realized his face was wet—which Jesus fuck! Why now?

Jackson instantly went into Alpha caretaker mode. “Hey now, shh, you’re okay, easy,” he cooed, assuming Stiles was crying over the spanking instead of having an existential crisis. The Alpha picked him up and carried him over to a nearby bench, continuing with the reassurances. “Shh, omega, I’m not angry any more.”

Even crying, it was all Stiles could do not to roll his eyes so far up he could do surgery on his own brain. Like he gave a fuck that Jackson Whittemore was angry at him?

“Did you, like, look this up online,” Stiles hiccupped, because seriously, the Alpha could have been quoting the basic omega-care manual.

Jackson gave him a little bite on his neck. “For once be quiet, Stiles,” he said, sounding _for once_ like a real person instead of a teen-movie cliché.

And of course some combination of the bite and the order made Stiles’ idiot dick sit up, like literally, and take notice. He began squirming in Jackson’s lap, practically choking when he realized that Jackson was hard too.

Yes! What would really turn this whole night—this whole year—around would be for Stiles to lose his virginity, _finally_ , preferably in some sleazy, slutty way, like with a douchebag like Jackson Whittemore in the parking lot at the Jungle.

Stiles’ squirming got more, shall we say, intentional—seductive!--as he imagined bouncing on Jackson’s big-ass Alpha cock like the omega did in a certain video he’d recently watched.

Jackson groaned but instead of trying to rip Stiles’ sexy club-shirt off, he shoved Stiles off his lap. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What the fuck does it look like? I want you to fuck me, you Alpha fuck!” Stiles decided it was very Lebowski of him to use fuck so many times in a sentence.

“You gotta be kidding me!” Jackson snarled.

OMG insulting? “So I’m good enough to spank but not good enough to fuck? You piece of shit, I can’t believe you, you asshole….”

“ _Quiet_!” Jackson snapped out in the Alpha tone, and then grabbed Stiles by the elbow and dragged him back to the car, opening the door and shoving Stiles in the passenger seat. “You are a piece of work, Stilinski. Even if it weren’t totally illegal, you are high as a kite right now.”

Stiles just snorted at the illegal part, since no Alphalistic legislator was going to take away Stiles Stilinski’s right to consent to having his own ass fucked, thank you very much. But he had no choice but to concede the “high” part. Though he was feeling depressingly sober at the moment, he’d been as fucked up as he’d ever been in his life less than forty minutes ago. Trying to convince someone else to ignore a partner’s impaired state might as well be the dictionary definition of “douchebag.”

Which was just fucking great: now Stiles got to feel like a bigger douche than the biggest douche he’d ever met.

 _And_ he wasn’t any closer to unloading his virginity.

 _And_ he’d completely made a hash of this whole revenge thing against Scott for his paternalistic meddling.

Altogether this had not been one of Stiles’ finest nights. He felt just enough contrition not to go on a rant while Jackson drove him home, but he’d be damned if he’d say thank you to Jackson for rescuing him from those Alpha slimeballs at the Jungle. His only option was to sit in sulky silence, though he could tell from Jackson’s sneer that the Alpha was dismissing his behavior as stereotypical omega brattiness.

Yeah, well _fuck him_.

He didn’t even give Jackson the chance to put the car in park before he was out of his stupid Porsche, slamming the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as he got upstairs to his room, Stiles became aware that neither his outrage at Jackson for spanking him or the humiliation at then being rejected were enough to kill his libido. More than that, with each passing second he was becoming more and more desperate—and warm. If he hadn’t known it was biologically impossible, he would have sworn he was in heat, but somehow the complete shitshow tonight had not resulted in him getting mated, Odin be thanked.

He tried to fight it for about 2.5 minutes before flipping open his laptop and booting up the video he’d been watching earlier—the one with a skinny, brown-haired omega boy squirming and bouncing on the lap of a blond Alpha, who was impressively ripped—but who otherwise looked nothing like Jackson. At all.

Like that actor totally had hazel eyes while Jackson’s were blue. Well, really a sort of steel blue--like the North Sea during a winter storm, not that Stiles had ever been to the North Sea. Or written poetry or anything, since that was just lame.

It was then that he made a horrifying discovery: despite getting more and more turned on, he couldn’t seem to get off. It was like Jackson’s spanking had _broken_ him somehow, short-circuited his ability to wank.

He had a sinking feeling about what it all meant, which was quickly confirmed by a few google searches: According to OmegaMed.com, omegas who had “substantial physical interaction” with a “compatible” Alpha sometimes went into what they were calling “pseudo-heat,” basically turbo-charging the drive to get right on that mating business, since obviously getting bitten and knocked up was _way_ more important for omegas than graduating high school.

Unfuckingbelievable! How was this his life? It was just another incredibly fucked up thing about the entire omega dynamic, because on what planet were he and Jackson “compatible”?

He had half a mind to drive over to Jackson’s right now and make him _fix_ this, but unlike his dad, Jackson’s parents presumably were home asleep at this hour.

He tried for a few more minutes but his dick was getting chafed. He really wished he’d gotten his head out of ass (ha ha) and started a collection of dildos, but he’d had some idiotic notion that that would be giving in to his omega urges.

But tonight those urges would get the last laugh. There was one thing he had that would make him feel better, but which he usually avoided at all costs. In fact, to make sure he wouldn’t get tempted, he’d buried it in the stupid, pointless cabinet above his closet, the one he could only reach by standing on a stool. And indeed, tonight he barely avoided a concussion and possibly a broken neck when a Tupperware container of _Magic the Gathering_ cards toppled out and brained him, almost causing him to fall off the stool.

If that weren’t enough, he basically had to empty the stupid cabinet, a sort of archeological dig of his old hobbies—LEGO, Pokemon, Transformers, etc. until he was finally able to the retrieve his old sleeping bag. It was mummy-style and had last fit him when he was in fourth grade.

Even alone in the house, Stiles wanted the wider universe to be completely clear about the fact that he HATED being restrained. In fact, _every single time_ the school therapist tried to put him in therapeutic restraints he’d had a panic attack.

But….

But it turned out that the scientists weren’t 100% wrong because there was something about pressure, constriction, that triggered his omega endorphins. It had started even before he presented. After his mom died and he started having pretty bad freak outs at night, his dad would wrap his arms around him and squeeze tight and it always worked to calm him down. Though his dad never said it, Stiles was pretty sure that his dad had guessed he was an omega even back then.

The mummy bag worked too—as long as he was alone and did it to himself.

He laid it on the bed and shimmied in, pushing with his arms against the silky material, feeling the resistance. He felt that strange shudder go through his body—almost like someone had breathed in his ear or run their fingernails down his back. The sensation bordered on creepy, but for some reason it helped release tightened muscles all over his body. There were chemicals involved with that too, but he couldn’t remember the specifics—that was as good a sign as any that his brain was shutting down, letting go of some of the fucked up shit from tonight.

It felt pretty good, if he were honest. Floaty. Quiet. Maybe he’d been too hard on his omega side—if that made sense, which it didn’t totally. But he’d been too dismissive of his omega traits. Mostly their society treated them as a crude tool to oppress him, but maybe it was different if Stiles used them himself.

He realized he was fondling his dick, though he didn’t seem any closer to coming. He’d have to figure out a way to get Jackson to fix this.

Which was when another plan started to form, not a bodacious plan, but definitely an _awesome_ one. He realized he’d been ashamed of using his omega side to get things, but that was just stupid. It was time to use his omega mojo to get what he wanted and right now that was a big dose of Alpha cock.

Some obnoxious little voice, that sounded a lot like Scott’s, warned that he was too angry, that like earlier tonight he wasn’t thinking carefully about what might go wrong. That voice could go fuck itself. He was getting laid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case you were curious, here's the [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNN9nL2vppM) to the dachshund ad, and yes, it does always make me tear up.  
> 

Stiles felt very hard core sitting in his Jeep, casing out the Whittemore’s pretentious, rich-dick house like some Oh-so- _dirty_ cop from _the Shield_. Of course it would have been better if he’d been sitting in a Camry or something, instead of one of the most conspicuous cars in Beacon Hills.

Whatever. This was still hard core. This was a Stiles-special _sting_.

There were only two cars in the driveway, but he was almost positive that Jackson’s mom went to the same 1pm yoga class that Lydia’s mom went to. And lookie there. Mrs. Whittemore getting into her Lexus at 12:20.

Method Actor time. He’d already queued up the “We are Groot” scene from _Guardians of the Galaxy_ on his phone (and also that stupid ad from the Super Bowl with the running dachshunds dressed as hot dogs which for some reason always made him sob like a baby).

After watching both, he turned the car on and drove the half block so he could pull into the Whittemore’s driveway.

He checked his face one last time in the mirror and then went and rang the doorbell. Jackson answered, of course, and the dude must have been working out himself since he was _shirtless_.

Fuck. It was almost enough to make Stiles break character. Almost, but not quite.

“What do you want?” Jackson snapped, but then got a look at Stiles’ tear-stained face. Jackson’s usual sneer evaporated to be replaced by Alpha concern. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. The Alpha took a deep sniff and his eyes flashed red. “What happened to your scent?”

Bingo! It looked like OmegaMed had been right about the effect.

Stiles threw his arms around Jackson, actually getting to rub his face against the bare skin of those smokin’ hot pecs. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t know who else to go to. What happened last night—it triggered something. It’s called pseudo-heat….”

Jackson sputtered, “Holy shit.”

Stiles could feel Jackson going hard—yes, this was going to work. “I need an Alpha. I need you!”

“Stiles… I can’t….”

“Not a bite, I just need you to fuck me. Please, this is torture. It’s like I’m in heat. Please, Alpha.”

Stiles was almost afraid he’d gone too far, but Jackson’s fangs dropped and he growled. Without the pseudo-heat, Stiles had a feeling that Jackson would see through his little performance, which pretty much defined shameless, despite what _Teen Omega_ promised in that article on “Ten Fool-Proof Tips to Make Your Alpha go Crazy!”

But apparently his pheromones did the trick, because Jackson started almost _gnawing_ on his neck. Stiles tilted his head to give him access, which had the expected effect of making Jackson even more aggressive. The Alpha started pulling him towards the stairs, which broke through Stiles’ own haze of lust. He’d made a little list of rules for himself and item number one was to avoid Jackson’s bedroom. He was pretty confident in the Alpha’s control, and he was positive that Jackson had no desire to mate him, but there was no reason to push his luck. Alphas had all these weird hang-ups about what they considered their territory, and the most reliable way to trigger Jackson’s possessive instincts would be to lose his virginity in the Alpha’s bed.

Getting drilled over the hood of Jackson’s Porsche in the Jungle parking lot would have been ideal, but Stiles was determined to make the Whittemore’s living room work for his fast and sleazy devirginizing.

To that end, he dropped abruptly to his knees and rubbed his face against Jackson’s dick, exactly as if he was dying for it—nothing but the truth there. Sucking an actual Alpha cock was extremely high on Stiles’ list of short-term life goals, and Jackson’s would definitely serve. He batted his eyes in what he hoped was a sultry manner and then slid Jackson’s trackpants down over his cock, which was hard like adamantium.

Also, it was big. Like, really big. Alphas were notoriously hung, but this was just…wow.

Not that he was intimidated. At all. Stiles might be a virgin who’d never seen an Alpha cock except for Scott’s, which didn’t count since they’d taken bubble baths together when they were five, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a size queen—he totally was. Absolutely.

_Focus Stiles. Open mouth, insert Alpha cock._

And fuck was that good. The taste and the scent— _fuck_! Stiles was never going to get sick of this. He opened wider, trying to take it deeper, sucking and swirling with his tongue and anything else he could think of. Stiles was determined that he was going to be the absolute ace of omega cock-suckers, and he might as well use Jackson’s dick to hone his skills.

He felt a slight tug on his hair, which served as a sobering reminder that Jackson’s cock was necessarily accompanied by the far more problematic presence of Jackson himself.

“Fuck, Stiles, I can’t… If you don’t stop…”

And wasn’t that an ego boost!

He tried to suppress the smirk as he pulled off Jackson’s dick, hopefully sounding suitably meek and desperate as he pleaded, “Take me right here—please Alpha.”

He pulled some lube and a condom from the pocket of his sweatshirt and handed it to Jackson and then moved to the back of the couch and dropped his own sweats, flicking them off one leg.

“Holy shit, Stilinski,” Jackson muttered as he ripped open the condom and rolled it on.

It really was the measure of his omega mojo that Jackson didn’t argue. Omegas were supposed to want rose petals and Enya for that magical, mystical “first time,” and Jackson was definitely the type of Alpha who bought into the stereotypes, which just made it all the more fucked up that he’d ever come anywhere near this particular omega. But calling him “Stilinski” was a good omen that Jackson wasn’t slipping into some sort of romantic delusion where Stiles was concerned.

Stiles spread his legs and bent over the back of the couch, just like in his third favorite porno about the omega delivery boy who delivers a pizza to a studly Alpha, who proceeds to drag him inside and fuck him over his sofa while watching a football game.

_Focus Stiles!_

Jackson was running a tentative finger along his hole, which wasn’t going to cut it. “Please,” he groaned. “I’m totally wet!” And also carefully lubed, which he opted not to mention. “Fuck, Jackson, I’m ready. Shove that monster in me! Fuck me, already.”

That probably wasn’t in character, but Stiles was done waiting. Jackson grunted, but for once in his life actually did what Stiles wanted and rubbed the tip of his cock along his taint to his hole. He tested a few times, which did not feel great, before gaining confidence that Stiles could take him, and pushed in more aggressively.

 _Holy shit!_ Stiles knew it would hurt, but _yowza_. This was a lot more than the sexy burn he’d read about in all those fanfics. Like this was actual pain _._ Stiles was rapidly rethinking his size queen aspirations. He felt like he was going to split open—how the fuck was he ever going to take a knot?

“God baby,” Jackson gasped. “You feel… fuck!”

Okay, so that was hot.

And flattering.

It helped. Jackson’s horniness proved sufficient spark to reignite Stiles’, and when all was said and done, Stiles’ horniness was like this voracious, rampaging slutty beast, that would NEVER be satisfied until it had DEVOURED THE UNIVERSE.

Or at least, been boned by lots and lots of Alpha cocks, starting, thank Odin, with Jackson’s.  

Getting turned on again must have loosened him slightly, because he felt Jackson sink even deeper. The Alpha groaned loudly and began to pulse his hips, holding back from pounding him. Stiles still felt stuffed to capacity, but he began to believe that someday, when he was actually used to this, it would feel really, really good.

Stiles was impressed in spite of himself at Jackson’s control, as well as relieved that he’d read the Alpha correctly. Jackson came off as a hothead, but Stiles had had years to observe the Alpha’s incredible self-discipline at Lacrosse and anything else that fueled his obsession to succeed. Jackson wasn’t going to lose control, which was good, because Stiles had no intention of getting knotted and knocked up while he was in fucking eleventh grade.

But of course his evil omega instincts had to get up in Stiles’ business, and get turned on by an Alpha taking care of him. Stiles knew that road led to ruin, led to him feeling… _things,_ things he didn’t want and couldn’t afford. This wasn’t a relationship. He wanted Jackson aggressive and douchey not considerate.

But of course Jackson hadn’t gotten that memo. He started nibbling his neck, in a way that omegas were supposed to like—and which to Stiles’ annoyance felt amazing. “Fuck, omega, you feel so good,” he murmured.

Stiles couldn’t decide if it was lucky or unlucky that Jackson would end up a pretty damn good lover on his first try. Thank god he was still a douchebag, because otherwise it would just be too much for Stiles’ sanity that his arch-nemesis would end up being rich, hot, a star athlete, an Alpha, _and_ a good lover.

But in better news, his cock finally started to harden properly. He reached around and started pumping it, only to have Jackson smack his hand away and growl, “That’s mine.”

Fuck.

He groaned and practically came right then.

Yes, he was a little omega slut, who got off on toppy Alphas. Sue him!

“Jackson, please,” he whimpered, unable to stop himself.

“Easy,” Jackson murmured and reached around and began pumping his cock. “Good boy—so sweet.”

Alpha praise, it was like crack to his pathetic tool of an inner omega. That plus the reality of someone else’s hand on his dick did the trick. Orgasm hit him so fast, he felt like the ground was falling out from under him, like he didn’t know which way was up. The sheer level of disorientation was frightening. He was not supposed to have a universe-upending orgasm having sleazy sex over the back of Jackson Whittemore’s sofa. Behind him Jackson was slamming into him as he came. Stiles tried to garble out a warning not to knot him, but fortunately Jackson pulled out before it became an issue.

The sex over, Stiles got to return home to realityville. Jackson moved away, presumably to toss the condom, leaving Stiles to fumble for his sweat pants.

As he came down from his orgasmic high, the burning, panicked desperation to get boned was ebbing away and he could tell he was reverting to his normal level of horniness. As his head cleared from the pseudo-heat, however, he could sense glimpses of that creeping despair lying in wait, which he feared no amount of sex could ever banish. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Scott’s warned that using someone for sex, even an Alpha, met Stiles’ own standards for gross douchebaggery. It made him want to cry for real, which was so not happening.

 _Save the existential crisis for later, you stupid fuck_.

It was probably fortunate that as Stiles came out of the haze of his pseudo-heat, Jackson did as well. He was blinking like he was coming out of delirium, just like the first time he’d held Stiles in that filthy bathroom.

“What the fuck just happened, Stilinski?” he demanded. Definitely returning to sanity.

There was no further reason for deception so Stiles smirked. “I’m pretty sure you just fucked me over your living-room sofa, dude. Which thanks, by the way. It was great. So I guess I should mosey….”

“You just played me?”

“Payback’s a bitch,” Stiles said. So maybe it was a little uncool to bait Jackson after he’d just cured Stiles’ persistent-virginity-syndrome, but on the plus side, it wasn’t like Jackson was the kind of Alpha who’d hit an omega.

 _Hit no, spank definitely yes_ , his inner Scott reminded him. Whoops. Given that his ass still hurt from last night, he decided he should probably get a move on. “Well, thanks for the fuck, I should…”

Jackson grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving. “So this was revenge?”

“Uh, no it wasn’t. This was me making you clean up the fucking mess you made last night when you decided to play at being my Alpha. I told you the truth about the pseudo-heat. You triggered it, so you got to fix it.”

“And I suppose your dad will be here any minute to arrest me,” he sneered.

“You fucking asshole.” Stiles shook out of the Alpha’s grip, authentically furious. “You’ve known me since kindergarten, asswipe. In all those years, have I ever gotten someone else in trouble? Did I tell on you that time you threw my Mets cap into the toilet, or any of the hundred times you shoved me into the lockers?”

“So then you think I’ll mate you now?”

“Listen to my heartbeat, you Alpha fuck. I am not trying to mate you—or date you. The pseudo-heat was real. I will send you the link. I needed to get laid. You’re an Alpha, and you’re not Scott, ergo I came here. And even if I did want to get mated, which I don’t, why would I accept a bite from a dude that will never think I’m good enough.”

_Way to humiliate yourself there, Stiles—and while you’re at it, maybe you should tell him about all the times you jerked off thinking about him!_

As usual his big mouth had gotten the better of him and he’d ended up spilling far more than he’d meant to—and infinitely more than he could afford. It was time to get the hell out of there. Struggling to save face at least a little, he gave what he hoped was a jaunty salute. “So thanks again for the fuck, let’s not do this again.”

As exit lines went, it wasn’t half bad, and appeared to leave Jackson sputtering for a response, so _go Stiles_.

And if an omega cries alone in his Jeep with no one to see, who’s to say it even happened.


	5. Chapter 5

It was just a one-time thing. Stiles reminded himself of that so often it was in danger of becoming his daily affirmation, but whatever. It was a one-time thing. Not that he was seriously tempted or anything, since when all was said and done Jackson was a total douche, but just to make sure, he religiously avoided Jackson all week. Or maybe Jackson avoided Stiles—same difference.

However, since he’d been so good about adhering to his “one-time-thing” principle for five whole days, Stiles figured he deserved a reward. So he allowed himself to go to Friday night’s lacrosse game. There was always a chance Scott might play. It totally wasn’t to see Jackson.

Yeah right.

Of course it was. And boy, did he see Jackson. It was hard not to since the dude dominated the game like some sort of Alpha god, scoring three times, the most of anyone, including a clutch goal in the final minute that pushed them ahead for the win.

Stiles had never been so horny in his life. Well at least, never at a school athletic event.

And it wasn’t just him. By the time the final whistle blew, Jackson’s eyes were glowing red and he was visibly seething. And Stiles just knew that all that lacrosse badassery was so much pent-up sexual frustration. Snap!

Stiles was well aware that going down to the locker room to congratulate the team was not his smartest idea. It wasn’t just that he was risking his one-time-thing resolution. It was just plain stupid for him to mess around with an Alpha whose blood was up like this, one who already had a sorta claim on him.

But hey, it was all about risk and reward like coach said.

As he congratulated his former teammates, Stiles gave Jackson a knowing smile, which resulted in him finally getting drilled over the hood of the Porsche, which was as sleazy and awesome as he’d hoped.

He told himself he was being careful. He (mostly) kept the sex to once a week, usually quick, angry encounters in the Jeep or the weight-room at school. There was no kissing allowed and no beds.

Stiles knew he was playing with fire—like he was basically trying to juggle liquid nitroglycerin. And every now and then that annoying Scott voice would whine at him about how Stiles had always believed that manipulating and using people for sex made you a douche and he didn’t get a free pass just because he was the omega.

Anyway, his “one-time-thing” mantra morphed into a “one-last-fuck” mantra. Every single time he told himself, _this was it_. He couldn’t keep doing this.

The problem was that his life outside of getting fucked by Jackson was taking on the qualities of a slow-moving train wreck. He got arrested again (which did lead to another spanking, this time followed up with some incredible hate-sex). He got put on academic and disciplinary probation. He failed “Everyday Science,” and then Math, and got kicked out of his Social Studies class.

Stiles refused to give a shit about school: the only teacher who treated him like a human instead of an omega basket case was Finstock in Econ, which told you all you needed to know about BHHS.

Unfortunately, his dad was not something he could ignore: Stiles could practically see his father’s hair going grey as he was forced to watch his only son slowly implode, unable to stop it. Stiles hated himself for hurting his dad. _Despised_. But it was like there was some cosmic momentum dragging him into the vortex that was infinitely more powerful than any resolution he could make.

It just felt so good to fuck Jackson—a little moment when he could just forget. More dangerously, it felt like a bit of cosmic payback. It was a way to give the finger to society and its stupid laws that said he couldn’t consent. And since Jackson was at least as unwilling and disgusted by the situation, he could give at least one Alpha douche a little taste of what it felt like to be a slave to your own hormones. It was the one area of his life where he felt like he was in control—where he had the power. And wasn’t that a lovely irony, since everyone was so convinced that omegas were totally submissive during sex.

But all good things must come to an end, blah blah blah. No one was surprised at this point when a fifth arrest was followed by official expulsion from BHHS. Writing and walls, etc. Stiles had moments where he pondered the great existential conundrum that the world around him was reacting in ways he had no trouble predicting. He himself was the source of instability: he couldn’t predict his own actions fifteen minutes from now, let alone a week or a month.  

And anyone who said it was because he was an omega could shove a cactus up their ass. The omega part wasn’t helping—that much was true. He’d guestimate that about 13% of his reaction to stimuli was overreaction due to his omega hormones riding him. But the rest of it was due to the world being a fucked up, unjust place that shat all over his entire dynamic and then expected him to smile and say “thank you sir, can I have another.”

He got why his dad kept giving him these awesome, wise-dad lectures on how if he wanted to change things he needed to play the game, suck up, get to a position with some power, where he could do some good. Whatever. That shit wasn’t happening. He’d tried that up until the first time a therapist put him in restraints, inducing a panic attack that sent him to the emergency room, all because he’d voiced a completely rational, just protest about his school’s omega athletic policy.

Stiles was packing up his locker—for the last time—while his dad waited out front in the cruiser. He tossed the books behind him without even looking, since fuck them. But he did grab the extra flannel shirt and set of car keys, plus his stash of weed which he didn’t bother trying to hide.

“Hey, Stiles.” He turned to see Danny Mahealani—not who he was expecting. He wasn’t happy to see him, but he didn’t hate the guy. No one did. Danny had to be the least douchey lacrosse player in the history of the sport.

“What’s up, Danny?”

“Sorry to hear about—you know....”

“Yeah—it’s a bummer.” Stiles tapped his foot impatiently because he might not hate Danny, but he wasn’t exactly eager to hear his commiseration either. Danny licked his lips nervously and looked around, which was just irritating Stiles more—like even Danny didn’t want to be seen with him. “Anything else?” he prompted.

“Look Stiles, I wanted to give you a heads-up. I was just in the locker room and Jackson’s kind of freaking out about what happened with you. I tried to talk him down, but he was ranting on about how you’re, like, spiraling and self-destructing and that if McCall couldn’t keep you in line, another Alpha needed to. Look, I know you’ve been letting him fuck you, but I had a feeling that it really wasn’t serious for you, like you were definitely _not_ trying to snag him as your mate, but Jackson’s not hearing it. I’ve never seen him like this. Dude, I’m worried he’s going to force a bite on you.”

“Jackson wants to mate me?” Stiles thought he might puke.

Danny winced. “Yeah, that’s what I thought—but you know Jackson--- _Mr_. _I’m everyone’s type_. Look, Stiles just be careful--at least until this blows over.”


	6. Chapter 6

Later Stiles would wonder if he’d been in some sort of fugue state. Even by his own abysmal standards, the next six hours hit new lows of _crazy shit is crazy_ , Eichen-House-here-we-come brand lunacy.

By the time his dad had left to go back to his shift, Stiles had formed a Plan. And he was convinced that it was everything a Plan should be: brilliant and audacious and totally infallible. It was proactive! And brilliant!

It only had one tiny problem: he needed Scott. And since there was no way that Scott would agree to any part of this Plan, and might disagree so incredibly much that he might finally break down and use the Alpha tone just to stop Stiles, he would have to be sneaky.

Which was fine: Stiles was born sneaky—he was sneaky in his sleep! Even more important, Scott was trusting—which was why he didn’t hesitate to say yes when Stiles texted and asked to meet him at the school parking lot in an hour. He followed up with a text to Jackson asking him to meet at the same spot and time because “they needed to talk.”

Next, he made up a salad of blanched cauliflower, carrots, and cherry tomatoes, with a side of low-fat dressing, which would serve as his excuse for showing up at the station.

He’d checked his tracer app for his dad’s phone and confirmed that he was still out on a traffic call and left for the station. He’d timed it to hit the shift change, so no one paid any attention when he lingered in his dad’s office long enough to open his lock box for a Taser and copy of the keys to the police prison transport.

Scott and Jackson were both there when he pulled up in the police van. Of course, instead of being impressed, both Alphas looked aghast.

“Stiles, what is that?” Scott asked.

“What, this? It’s a police van,” Stiles said cheekily.

Now came the hard part: getting close enough to Jackson without the Alpha subduing him physically or with the Alpha tone. This was why he needed Scott: there was too big a risk that Jackson would get the jump on him and he’d end up mated.

And whadya know: next thing, Jackson was snapping in the Alpha tone, _“Omega, what the fuck are you doing with a police van?”_

“I stole it,” Stiles answered. “Oh and a Taser,” he added and jammed it right into Jackson’s ribs and pushed the button. The Alpha went down like the proverbial sack of potatoes—or was it a stack of potatoes?—Those were more likely to fall, right? Whatever. It was epic.

“Holy shit! That was awesome!” he gushed. “I totally need to get one of these.”

Scott looked almost green. “Stiles, what… what did you? You just… Jackson,” he sputtered.

“Help me get him into the van,” Stiles ordered.

“Stiles, what the fuck!”

“Jackson was going to force a mating bite on me, so I am teaching him why that would be a truly terrible idea.”

“What are you talking about?”

Stiles realized belatedly that this would all have gone smoother if he had given Scott some hint about what had been happening with Jackson. But the last thing he had wanted was more buttinski Alpha input into his poor omega choices. “So I probably should have told you this. Jackson and me, we kinda had a thing—like a sexual thing.”

“He seduced you?” Scott looked outraged.

“What the actual fuck, Scott? Seriously, what the fuck? You hear that Stiles Stilinksi and Jackson Whittemore are boning, and your first assumption is that Jackson did the seducing? This right here is my problem, because in a million years you’d only ever say that because of my dynamic and not because of, say, any knowledge of my personality obtained over the nine years we’ve been best friends!”

Scott stared at him like he was delusional. “Stiles, dude, you literally just Tased him in front of me. Did something—bad happen?”

Okay, so that might actually be a fair point. “No, it’s nothing like what you’re thinking. We were fuck buddies—nothing more—and I was totally on board with that, but then I guess Jackson freaked out when he heard I got booted from BHHS and decided the solution was to mate me.”

“He did what?” Scott had that expression like his brain was on the brink of breaking from the sheer incomprehensibility of whatever Stiles was telling him.

“Look Scott, we don’t have time for this. I will explain it to you when we’re on the road, but we can’t stay here. I need you to help me get him into the van.”

The “help” part was bullshit of course: Stiles could not have budged an unconscious Jackson for anything short of a life-or-death, mom-lifts-the-car-to-save-her-baby level miracle. Scott was not happy, but with truly impressive ease, he pulled Jackson into a fireman carry and hefted him into the back of the van. Stiles put the shackles on him, feeling a sadistic sense of Karmic payback.

“Get in,” he told Scott. Scott looked so ill Stiles was beginning to worry he might puke in the van, but as had happened countless times since they’d first met in kindergarten, he went along. Stiles didn’t know why he did it. Habit? Pity?

A little voice in his head that sounded too much like his dad’s warned that Scott’s being an Alpha did not suddenly absolve Stiles from his responsibility to his best friend. He felt a wave of something—shame? Regret? Anxiety? But he forced it down by resolving that he would do better, have Scott’s back, and stop dragging him into shit.

Not that he had to worry about today: to his genuine astonishment his brilliant Plan was going flawlessly.

Stiles drove them out to the preserve, parking in a spot near Beacon Ridge. There had been enough grunts, rattles, and “I’m going to kill you, McCalls,” over the last ten minutes that the safe money was that Jackson was awake.

However, he had quieted down as they entered the Preserve, which Stiles found surprisingly unnerving. Scott was also looking discouragingly grim as he asked, “So what now?”

Stiles swallowed, suddenly realizing that he had not thought this part through in any detail, like maybe he hadn’t actually thought his brilliant Plan would work quite this well.

Which was criminally negative thinking on his part! His Plan was brilliant and he just had to keep thinking that. He got out and handed the keys to the van and the shackles to Scott. “You hold these. He’s going to use the Alpha tone. I need him to listen.”

As they opened the back, Jackson was sitting up glowering. “I hope you have an excellent lawyer, McCall, because you are going to need it when I prosecute your ass all the way to jail!”

“You see this, _this_ , here is the problem!” Stiles shouted, feeling more confident that he could finally say what he needed to Jackson. “This is why I did this: so you could feel what it’s like to be trapped against your will. This is what you wanted to do to me when you threatened to bite me.”

 _“Quiet omega,”_ Jackson snapped in the Alpha tone. And then to Scott, “You were responsible for him—you let this happen.”

It felt like a blow even though he’d known it was coming—that Jackson would just dismiss him like that. To his horror, tears sprang to his eyes. He joked about the hate-sex and thinking Jackson was a douche, but the truth was that he’d felt a bond, if only because of what they’d shared.

It pissed him off that he had to rely on Scott, but that was why he’d brought him and he had to admit his friend didn’t let him down. Scott did not get defensive or fixate on himself but instead ordered, _“Don’t listen to him, Stiles,”_ using the Alpha tone for the first time in his life. “Jackson, I really think you need to listen to him.”

“What, like you do? He was your responsibility—and now look, he’s a mess,” Jackson shouted, still acting like Stiles wasn’t even there.

“Scott, give us a minute.” Stiles wished he sounded more angry and less broken.

“Stiles…” Scott tried to protest, which helped Stiles find his voice. “Scott, please, I need you to get out.”

Scott gave him his worried-puppy look but he did get out of the van.

“You are so going to jail, McCall!” Jackson yelled after him.

That at least helped rekindle Stiles’ outrage. “What about me?” he yelled. “I’m the one who kidnapped you.” Jackson refused to look at him. “Oh I get it, because I’m an omega, I’m somehow not guilty? Even though this was 100% my idea—I stole the Taser, I got the keys for the police van out of the lock box and then texted Scott to meet me at the school. He had no clue about what I was doing. It’s like I’m not even a person to you—I’m just this basket case omega who needs an Alpha whether he wants one or not.”

Jackson looked at him and for once Stiles felt like the Alpha was actually seeing him. “Look around you, Stiles,” he sneered. “Look at what you’ve done. You do need an Alpha. You’re totally out of control.”

“So you thought you could fix that by forcing a mating bite on me?” To his horror, the words came out as more of a sob than a shout. “You don’t even like me.”

“I couldn’t stand to watch it,” Jackson said finally.

“I am not your problem: swear you’ll never bite me, Jackson.” Stiles hated that he was begging. It was dawning on him that his brilliant Plan was not turning out the way he’d hoped. It might have been better if he’d spent three minutes considering what might go wrong—and what he might do if it did.

“It’s safe to say that you are the last omega in the universe that I would mate,” Jackson bit out with his trademark sneer, but Stiles could tell Jackson was deeply upset by what had happened.

Some part of him desperately wanted to say sorry—to Jackson—the one who’d started this mess when he’d decided to play at being an Alpha. The one who’d threatened to take away all of Stiles’ freedom and trap him in a loveless mating—for life. But that was one area where Stiles stood firm. He did not apologize to Alphas.

“Don’t do this again, Jackson, don’t do—whatever this was—with an omega you don’t like.”

Jackson turned his head. “You’re fucked now, Stilinski—you and McCall.” That was when Stiles caught it too—the sound of police sirens.

Holy shit. “Jackson, you have to leave Scott out of this!”

“He’s your Alpha—none of this would have happened if he’d done what he should have”

“He’s my friend—he was never my Alpha.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Stiles.”

“Uh, Stiles, I think we have a problem,” Scott said, putting his head through the door.

“Give me the keys,” Stiles ordered. Scott tossed them to him and ducked out again.

“Please Jackson,” he made one last try. “It wasn’t like you could keep me in line: neither of you could, I’m begging you—just don’t say anything about him, please, just please.”

Jackson frowned but nodded. Stiles unlocked the shackles and cuffs. Jackson grabbed him and spun him and gave his ass one last smack, and then led him out of the van—to an actual nightmare.

Jordan Parrish was putting Scott in handcuffs, while his dad looked almost grey with worry.

Stiles was opening his mouth to argue, when his dad shook his head. That’s when he realized the man standing next to him was David Whittemore, the DA.

“Jackson, are you alright, son?” he was asking.

“I’m fine, dad,” Jackson muttered.

“Let’s see if you can sweep this one under the carpet, Stilinski—stolen property, assault, kidnapping,” Whittemore said. “You were caught on camera in the school parking lot,” he sneered at Stiles. “You and your Alpha.”

“Stiles, not a word!” his dad stopped him. To Whittemore he said firmly, “We’re not sweeping anything under the carpet. Parrish will handle the arrest so there’s no conflict of interest—is that acceptable?”

Whittemore didn’t look happy, but apparently didn’t want to discredit the entire Sheriff’s department. “Fine.” It was easy to see where Jackson got his sneer.

“Parrish, read him his rights.”


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles had spent most of the past three years griping about how being an omega had turned his life into a dumpster fire. Turned out that he didn’t know shit. He’d never in his life imagined it was possible to feel as horrible as he did at this moment.

The irony was that Parrish was treating him with kid gloves—because he was an omega. As soon as they got to the station, Jordan took off the cuffs and led him over to his desk.

“Uh, we don’t actually have an omega-safe holding cell,” he explained, sounding almost apologetic. “It’s never been necessary, but I can’t legally put you in the main holding.”

“Is that where Scott is?” Stiles demanded. Parrish nodded. “You have got to let me see him.”

“Absolutely not,” Parrish answered. “The entire reason your dad asked me to take custody of you was to avoid any impropriety. Look, just take a seat. I called social services; they’re going to send over an omega liaison, and then we’ll take a statement.”

Stiles nodded and tried to look meek and omega-like, but his brain was seething, He needed to speak to Scott before he did anything stupid like try to take the blame.

Jordan was a good guy, but even his dad joked that he was a boy scout—he was almost painfully earnest and even Stiles, Beacon Hill’s most immature seventeen year old, thought he looked too young to be a deputy—let alone a badass army vet, who’d done a tour in Afghanistan defusing IEDs.

But Stiles knew his window for fixing this was closing. While Parrish had been driving him back to the station, the call had come over the radio for _all available units_ on a possible armed robbery, so of course his dad had responded. Jordan might be a boy scout, but he’d be easier to manipulate that his dad, who knew all of Stiles’ tricks.

For once luck was on his side and inspiration struck. “I have a right to see my Alpha! You need to let me in to see Scott, right now,” he blurted out.

The perplexed look on Parrish’ face would have been hilarious on any other day. “You’ve gotta be kidding me….”

“I’m totally not—I’m an omega; I have a legal right to contact my Alpha. Scott told Judge Lopez that he’s my Alpha—not even David Whittemore could argue with that.” Jordan just blinked at him and then finally shook his head in defeat.

Jeeze, for an army badass he was a pushover. Even Scott wouldn’t have caved so fast.

This being Beacon Hills, of course the only person in holding was Scott, who was pacing anxiously, a sign of how freaked he was.

“Dude, are you okay?” Scott asked because he was basically a saint.

“Of course I’m fine—they didn’t even put me in holding. What about you?”

“Yeah, I mean, other than being in jail. Holy shit, what’s my mom going to say? There’s no way we can afford a lawyer right now. They keep talking about an aggravated felony—what does that mean?”

Stiles shuddered, afraid if he tried to speak he might puke instead.

“It’s a charge brought against an Alpha when an omega is present during a crime,” Parrish told him finally.

Because of course the omega must be an innocent victim who would never do anything wrong if an Alpha didn’t make them. Stiles forced down the rage that would swell up. He’d really done it this time—his best friend was in danger of having his life ruined because he’d tried to be a loyal friend to Stiles.

“Scott, listen to me. Do not say anything. This was 100% my fault. I will get you out of this.”

“No Stiles…” Scott protested.

“Whittemore’s claiming you’re an incorrigible,” Parrish added, “and that it’s Scott’s fault. He said you were his mate.”

“It is my fault,” Scott insisted. “I should have realized what was happening with Jackson.”

“SHUT UP! Both of you. Listen to me Scott. Please, for once. This, _this_ right here is the problem. There is literally no possible interpretation of what happened today that could make this _your_ fault. I get that you want to help me, but I needed you to be my friend, not my Alpha. I’m not blaming you. Neither of us understood what was happening. Same with Jackson: the dynamic was messing with all of us and we didn’t understand the consequences. But if you have ever given a shit about me, you will let me fix this and not get in the way. You talk about responsibility: please don’t make me responsible for ruining your life.”

Scott nodded, thank Odin. His eyes were red, not from his Alpha mojo but with actual tears. Fuck, if Stiles had had to fall for an Alpha, why couldn’t he have fallen for Scott? But just thinking about it made him shudder, and lying to himself about what he was looking for had clearly made this problem a shitload worse. Stiles grabbed Jordan’s arm and pulled him out of holding.

“Stiles, do you understand what you’re doing?” Jordan hissed as soon as they were in the hall. “They’ll put you in Eichen House for sure this time.”

“Scott is not going to jail for me. Please, please help me. I don’t care what happens to me.”

“Yeah, well that’s the problem,” Parrish snapped, probably the first time Stiles had heard the deputy raise his voice. “Have you any idea what this will do to your father?”

Stiles forced the tears down—there’d be time enough for that later, years most likely, and once he started crying he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to stop again.

“Jordan, you know how Melissa is like almost a mom to me? Well, since Scott’s dad left, my dad has been like that for him. Yeah, it will hurt if I go to Eichen, but my being punished for something I am actually guilty of will hurt him a lot less than seeing Scott go to _prison_ for something I did. You know him and you know I’m right. Jordan please: I need to know which judge is going to get this case.”

Stiles was learning to read Jordan and saw once again as he gave up the fight before Stiles’ overpowering omega logic. Might as well add him to the list of people Stiles had screwed over thanks to his brilliant Plan. “Satomi Ito,” he said. “She’s on this rotation. It’s six o’clock. She’s probably still there. But Stiles, be careful. She’s an Alpha.”

 ****

Stiles had to concede he could not have done it without Parrish’s help. The deputy checked on his dad’s status. “He’ll be at least another hour,” he informed him and then snuck him out the side door into a parking lot, which it turned out, was directly opposite the rear of the courthouse, which Stiles had never realized.

They entered through what must have been an employee entrance; the guard on duty nodded at Parrish but otherwise paid no attention to them.

Thanks to Parrish’s uniform, not one person questioned them as they walked down corridors and up stairs and finally to a back hallway that apparently led to the various judges’ “chambers,” which now struck Stiles as sorta weird and pretentious—“I’ll see both of you in my chambers!” How many times had he heard that on a TV show; why not just call it an office, since apparently that’s what they were? Or just a chamber, singular?

Parrish seemed to know his way around, because he led them directly to one of those paneled wooden doors with “Judge Satomi Ito” etched on a brass plate. Jordan looked at him questioningly, to give him one final chance to back off, but Stiles had gotten this far. He knocked and a female voice called out, “Come in.”

They went into the office or chamber(s) or whatever, which looked pretty generic to Stiles, and nothing like the fancy-ass ones in the movies. Judge Ito rose when she saw them. She was older and surprisingly short, but Stiles could feel her Alpha power almost like physical force.  

“Deputy—what’s this about?”

“Your Honor…”

“We’re not in court, Jordan,” she stopped him.

“Sorry, Judge Ito, I’m very sorry….”

“He’s here because of me,” Stiles interrupted, before Parrish twisted himself into a knot with the apologies. “Because my best friend is about to go down for something I did, and this was the only way I could think of to stop that from happening.”

“An omega? You wouldn’t be the son of Sherriff Stilinski, would you?”

“Uh, yeah, Ma’am, I mean Your Honor—uh, how did you know?”

“I’ve heard about you,” the judge said. “And as a Sheriff’s son, you know exactly how inappropriate and illegal it is for you to be in here.”

“You’re right—I do know, but I also know I’m an omega, and no one listens to me even when I’ve tried to play buy the rules. I did something really, really stupid.”

“One thing?”

“Fine. Basically my life for the last two years has been a long string of crap decision, sorry, _bad_ decisions. And my best friend, who’s an Alpha, tried to help me and ended up getting arrested and blamed for something I did.”

“Scott McCall, yes, I’ve already heard: kidnapping, assault and theft. Those seem quite a step up from petty vandalism. What on earth were you thinking?”

“Look, it was a prank—it just got out of control.”

 _“Try again, omega,”_ she said, flashing her eyes.

“Okay, okay, Jackson, the Alpha that I quote unquote kidnapped—we’d sorta been seeing each other, nothing serious—but you cannot tell my dad, please!”

“Why not?”

“Look, I know what the law says, but it’s a bad law.”

“I take it you mean the laws on omega consent? So you are saying that you were in a sexual relationship with a newly-presented Alpha?”

“Yes, uh, yes—we were.” Somehow confessing it to another Alpha forced Stiles to own up to what a massive risk he’d been taking and how incredibly lame his excuses sounded. He didn’t want to let Jackson off for his part, but Stiles had been acting like this was just some casual fling they could both walk away from, meanwhile ignoring multiple warning signs that Jackson’s instincts were engaged—in fact, basically their whole relationship came down to how strongly Stiles triggered Jackson’s Alpha instinct to protect an omega. And though the first time had been totally inadvertent on his part, he’d deliberately exploited them to get laid that first time, and continued to play on them to serve his own ends.

“Look, you don’t have to say it. I know. I can see now what a huge mistake it was. Everything. I didn’t understand, but I get that’s no excuse.”

“And the kidnapping—what was that?” When he hesitated, Judge Ito added, “We’ll treat this entire meeting as off the record—as it is already in violation of the law. Jordan, you won’t say anything about it to anyone—is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“So polite. So, as to the kidnapping—let me make a guess: after allowing yourself to be claimed sexually by a newly-turned Alpha, you were shocked to discover that this Alpha now wished to claim you fully?”

“He didn’t want to, not really; he didn’t even like me. But then I got kicked out of school, and Jackson basically freaked. A friend of ours told me that he was planning to force a bite on me. I just wanted Jackson to see what it’s like when no one listens to you—when you’re trapped.”

“And Mr. McCall, what was his part in this?”

“I swear, he had no idea what I was planning—he didn’t know about me and Jackson.”

“Then why involve him at all?”

“Because I knew Jackson would use the Alpha tone on me—I needed him to listen.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that Scott McCall would be held responsible for you?”

“I don’t… people look at me and Scott and see an Alpha and omega, like he’s got a claim or responsibility or some bull-, uh, you know. But the thing is, I’ve known Scott my whole life. He’s not an Alpha, he’s my friend. We’ve done plenty of stupid stuff and gotten in trouble, but it was always both of us; it never even occurred to me that he would be blamed for something I did, that he had no control over.”

Judge Ito pursed her lips, manifestly not impressed with Stiles’ brilliant Plan, which even he could see fell vastly short of brilliance. He couldn’t help respecting that she didn’t seem to be assuming that Jackson had abused or taken advantage of him in some way. That’s what most people would—even Scott who knew both of them had jumped right to that.

Finally, after several agonizing minutes, she said, “Perhaps ironically, that you persuaded Jordan to bring you here is probably the most convincing argument you could have made. In all my years on the bench, I’ve rarely seen an officer as conscientious and respectful of the law as he is, and yet here he is, egregiously breaking it, at the risk of the career he loves.” Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but the Judged snapped, “ _Quiet omega_. Now you will listen. It is obvious that you have a rare gift for dragging people into messes that they would never involve themselves in otherwise and spurring them to make highly questionable decisions: this Jackson, Scott McCall, Deputy Parrish. Apparently I myself am now to be added to that number. What is the name of the friend who told you that Jackson planned to force a bite on you?”

“Uh, Danny Mahealani, Your Honor, but please, I don’t, I don’t want to press charges or anything.”

“So I gathered, but I need the threat to make sure that David backs down on prosecuting Scott McCall.”

“Oh, okay.”

“But understand: we are far past the point of sweeping your actions under the rug. You are the son of a county sheriff who stole police property in order to commit assault—this after your father had used his influence more than once to get you let off on a variety of lesser charges. For him to let you off now would effectively destroy his career. I don’t have to tell you that your father is an excellent sheriff: all of Beacon Hills would suffer if he were removed from his position, which is frankly less acceptable to me than Scott McCall serving time. I will have to declare you an incorrigible, and the law gives me very little discretion when it comes to sentencing.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, his voice cracking. “I understand. I don’t care what happens to me, so long as he and Scott are okay.”

Judge Ito grunted. “I think there has been far too much of this lack of care from you, omega. You cannot expect the Alphas in your life to simply turn a blind eye. It is impossible.”

“I’m beginning to get that,” he said quietly. He’d wanted to pretend that dynamic simply didn’t exist—that it was just society’s bullshit, and it shouldn’t matter. He’d been wrong: both he and Jackson had been acting out instincts way more than either of them had realized.

“For what it is worth, I completely agree that omegas are treated unfairly, by society and the law. I just wish you had found a better way to expose this injustice than going to jail for your Alpha friend.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Since we’ve already thrown propriety out the window, we might as well get this settled tonight. I have to make a few phone calls. You,” she snapped at Stiles, “sit right there and no more shenanigans.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

***

His dad got there about 40 minutes later, and was as angry as Stiles had ever seen him. “You! What on earth were you thinking! Have you any idea how inappropriate this is? And you,” he snapped, pointing at Parrish. “I’ll have your badge for this—this is an outrage.”

“John,” Judge Ito broke in. “I think you might cut Jordan some slack. It’s clear that your son is uniquely gifted at drawing people into trouble—evidenced by the fact that I myself have called this meeting tonight instead of hearing arguments in court tomorrow. Thank you, Jordan. You should get back to the station—we’ve got it from here.”

“Uh, yes Your…Ma’am. Sorry, sir, uh, sorry,” Parrish muttered and practically sprinted out the door.

“Your Honor, I apologize,” his dad started to say.

“We’re quite past this, and I think part of the reason we find ourselves in this situation is that both you and young Mr. McCall have been doing altogether too much apologizing on behalf of this omega.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now, your son has persuaded me that Scott McCall was at most an unwilling bystander in this nonsense, and I have spoken to David and convinced him to drop any charges against him.”

As Stiles predicted, his dad breathed a sharp sigh of relief. His dad was not the kind of person who would ever let an innocent person take the fall for him—or his son. And to his dad’s credit, it didn’t matter that Stiles was an omega. His dad held him just as accountable for his actions as he would an Alpha or a beta. Dad looked over at Stiles then and gave him a tiny nod of approval.

Stiles felt like he could finally breath again—he’d not completely destroyed his dad’s opinion of him. Judge Ito made a small smile watching them—as if pleased to have her own assessment confirmed.

“What about Stiles?” his dad said then.

“I’m afraid there is no choice on this: I am declaring him an incorrigible.”

His dad looked less upset than just weary--resigned. Stiles realized that he’d been expecting it, probably for a while now.

“I understand, Your Honor,” he said.

“Now as to that: the law gives me very little discretion on this. An incorrigible omega is by definition out of control, and the remedy is to be placed in a safe, structured environment where they will no longer be a risk to themselves or others.”

In other words, hello Eichen House. It looked like he would be getting up close and personal with one of the omega-safe, padded rooms.

Stiles nodded at Judge Ito, “I know the law, Your Honor. I knew I was risking getting sent to Eichen House.”

“I’m not finished,” she snapped. “Eichen House is one option. But there is an older law, still on the books. And though this law should have been abrogated decades ago, I see no reason not to take advantage of it now, given that the omega in question is unmated.”

“Wait a minute….”

“The other option is mating to an Alpha.”

“No!” Stiles was on his feet. “Sorry, but no way. I don’t agree to that! There’s no way I’m mating some Alpha….”

Judge Ito smiled dangerously. _“Silence omega! Return to your seat.”_

He plopped down, unable to disobey, suddenly realizing that the judge who’d seemed so chill and understanding had been waiting all along to drop this bomb. He’d somehow let himself forget that she was still an Alpha—and he was an omega.

“As an incorrigible, you have forfeited the right to make this decision,” she said implacably. “You _will_ defer to your father, omega.”

“Dad! You can’t, this is crazy!”

“We would be able to choose the Alpha?” his dad asked the judge.

“Dad!” he squawked.

“Yes, assuming you could find one willing to mate your son.”

“Son, just listen for a moment.” His dad turned to him. “Think about it—Eichen is going to be a nightmare for you. It’s everything about safe-space that you hate, times about a million. You’d be climbing the walls within a day, and that would be all the excuse they need to keep you drugged and restrained.”

“It’s better than being mated to an Alpha!” he shouted.

Judge Ito snorted at that. “Is that so, omega? Your behavior for the past six months at least has been that of an omega desperately crying out for an Alpha!”

“That’s a fucking lie!”

“That is enough!” his father snapped furiously. “You _will_ show respect in this room. Judge Ito just saved your best friend from a possible ten-year prison sentence.”

“Yes sir,” he muttered.

The fucking Alpha chuckled. “I find your defensiveness quite revealing, omega. You would do well to reflect on exactly why you find the idea of an Alpha so objectionable.”

“Well how about that only an omega would ever be forced to mate—not a beta or an Alpha.”

“I don’t defend the law, Stiles—for omegas or Alphas, who are routinely given much heavier sentences than the other dynamics. We have much work to do if we are to achieve anything resembling justice. But perhaps in your focus on injustice you have allowed yourself to forget that you are an omega, with an omega’s needs.”

“Satomi,” his dad interrupted. “Could we have a minute?”

“Of course, John—I could use a cup of tea after all of this drama.”

As soon as she was out of the room, Stiles burst out, “Dad, you can’t choose mating, please—it’s crazy.”

“Son, answer one question for me: why do you still have that sleeping bag?”

Stiles snapped his head up before he could remind himself to cover his response. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice cracking pitifully.

“The one from fourth grade?” his dad said knowingly.

“I have lots of stuff! I have like ten Transformers, and about a million LEGO,” he tried to recover, but his dad was shaking head.

“You know what I hate the most about that omega advisor—the one at school, what was her name?”

Stiles was left sputtering at the abrupt change in topic. “Miss Blake?”

“Miss Blake. She forced you into those restraints, pretending they were for your good, when really they were a punishment because you spoke out. So something that was supposed to make you feel safe, give you control over your panic attacks, became a blatant abuse of power, and because of that, they couldn’t help you.”

“Dad….”

“Hear me out, Stiles. That was bad enough, but what I can never forgive her for is that she made you hate what you are. Your omega needs had been used against you, and so you rejected that entire side of your personality. I wish I could have done more—I could see it happening, but I didn’t know how to help you.”

“Dad! This is not your fault! Please, never say that.” He sniffled and tried to wipe his eye on his shoulder to make it less obvious that he was crying.

“Son, I cannot see you go to Eichen House. I have a feeling Scott will step up—I know that’s not how you feel about him…”

“God, dad, not Scott! I think I’ve ruined his life enough for one month.”

“Kid, you’ve made some bad choices, and guilty or not, he was involved. Now you’re both going to have to deal with the consequences.”

“Please, dad, if you ask Scott, he’ll feel like he has to say yes.”

His dad sighed. “Let me talk to Judge Ito, see what kind of time frame we have here. And I suppose I should contact the Hales. I doubt they’ll care, but seeing as we’re going to do this old school, basically an arranged mating, I guess I have to give them first crack at you.”

“I’m sure they’ll get right on that one: seventeen-year-old incorrigible—people will be lining up. Then again, Derek Hale, I saw his picture in _Alpha Beat_ —dude’s super hot.”

“ _Alpha Beat_ , huh? Let’s go talk to Satomi, and then we’re hitting the diner. You need some curly fries and I need a bacon cheeseburger.”

“Dad! Your cholesterol!”

“Stiles, if you want to keep me from having a coronary, how about you start by not stealing a police van.”

“Uh, yeah, point taken.”

“You know I love you more than anything, right kid?”

“Yeah dad. Back at you.”

“We’ll get through this, I promise.”

“Of course we will. I’m like CinderStiles and Prince Hale is gonna show up on his mighty steed and whisk me off to his castle--totally. It’s a done deal—no way that’s not happening.”

His dad actually laughed! That was not something Stiles had thought would end up happening today. He felt a tiny sliver of hope, irrational though that might be. He might be getting mated, but he and his dad were okay.

His dad was right—they’d get through this.

“Alright you! Let’s get out of here. There’s a bacon cheeseburger out there waiting with my name on it.”

“Well, I could go for some curly fries.”

“That’s the spirit, son.”

 


End file.
